Entries tagged with rant

Why do people get so schmaltzy about a woman's behaviour the moment she brings a child into this world? It has nothing to do with love, and everything to do with chemistry. Most women are hard-wired to experience a deep, unbreakable love and connection to the child they just bore, because mammals are programmed to experience such joy to ensure the protection and care for the new life. Women, in general, have this instinct. Some women, like myself, do not.

But when I see people get all squishy over the normally natural instincts of a female caught up in the heady miasma of birth, it makes me sad that so many are oblivious to the science surrounding it, and prefer to attribute some mystical love-fest to the proceedings. Let the woman be what she is in her moment. Don't decorate the experience with obsolete beliefs. She's doing the exact same thing a mother cat does when she removes her babies' placentas and cleans them vigourously. Her instincts, in the form of love, which is a collection of chemicals triggered by childbirth, dictate that she does this, just like most women are desperate to hold their newborns to their breasts.

Don't get me wrong. I honour the customs that surround childbirth. I sympathise with the mystic traditions that have been born out of the birthing process. I understand and sense the work of the Goddess in such events. But I also know that science has explained a lot of what we once thought divine in nature, and that's something that we cannot deny.

Be happy for the new mother, if she is indeed happy to be one. Celebrate with her. Enjoy the customs and traditions you practice in regard to pregnancy and birth. Just do so from an informed position, rather than from one of superstition and ignorance. Yes, she is in love. Yes, she is glowing with joy. And yes, she's enjoying a high from a cocktail of chemicals that demand she feel these things, for the well-being of her newborn child.

I'm listening to a discussion about how college students are protesting ultra-conservative speakers at their graduation ceremonies, and many people on both sides of the fence are tut-tutting these young adults for choices, citing a lack of manners and an inclination to tamp down free speech.NO.These young people are realising what their parents should have twenty years ago, or more. When it comes to extreme views, based on hate and, these days, very thinly veiled, people like that have lost the luxury of being treated with manners, because they don't afford the same to the majority of their fellow Americans.

The time for so-called polite discourse is over, because these people never wanted that; rather, they want people to keep their mouths shut and listen to what they have to say, then toe the line. You can't fight madness like that by following a model the other side abandoned decades ago. If freedom is to survive, those who treasure it and, especially, those who depend on it for their safety from these thugs, need to rise up, exactly like these college graduates are doing.A huge chunk of Baby Boomers turned traitor ages ago, opting for the promise wealth over the ideal of true liberation. Generation X, my generation, is too jaded and complacent to be very effective at all, plus we were the first generation to grow up under the unsupervised shadow of the burgeoning Moral Majority, so many in our own ranks came into adulthood brainwashed, then did the same to their kids, who are even more dedicated to the theocratic movement, which was born out of an intolerance of de-segregation, not a love for foetuses. And the poor Millennials just don't get listened to, because they are so incredibly alien to the former gens, especially the Boomers. (I don't think they're alien, I love Millennials!). Is it any wonder they are choosing more aggressive tactics in a bid to protect what few freedoms they have left?

Was it rude for the graduates of Bethune-Cookman University to turn their backs on Nancy DeVos? That depends. Is it rude for someone who is part of a movement that intrinsically hates non-whites and justifies it with Jesus to presume to make a commencement speech at a college that was created because African Americans weren't allowed in White colleges? The new adult Americans realise something we older ones could not, or would not: You have to give tit for tat, when it comes to irrational, aggressive, narrow-minded people who are about as American as Al Qaeda. The new adult Americans are all Americans' safety net, the only thing coming between us and complete collapse into a Fascist Theocracy.

Before I begin writing this, I want to make something abundantly clear: I am not actively suicidal. Suicidal Ideation is one of many joyful experiences served up by Depressive Disorder. So, let's get that straight. No need to call emergency services. I just need to purge all of this, so it doesn't go any further than unbidden flash thoughts.

After six hours of fitful sleep, my first thought when I woke up this morning was, "I'm thin enough now, I could walk to Rogers Bridge with Smidgen and Toby, and we could jump in the Middle Tyger River. That way, we'd never be a burden or worry to anyone ever again, least of all ourselves."

Off and on yesterday, as the funds just poured out for very damned little, I caught myself considering the peace oblivion would bring. I have placed strain on my family out here, and I'm being a pest to my friends and Tribe for rides and money. I've drug my two homebody furbabies all over hell and half creation to establish a relationship with my mother that never was meant to be. I can't eat properly, I'm always in pain, and honestly, I'm lonely. I feel like I've lost the ability to be (or act) normal in a social situation.

I've felt more like a throwaway than I have in months. And I know it's that damned chemical imbalance in my brain interacting with the uncertainty of my future, but being intellectually aware of what's causing it does not prevent it or alleviate it. I just have to work through it.

It truly is like having a monster living in your mind and, despite your efforts to stop it, it just continues to gnaw away at your will to keep the thing at bay. No one needs or wants a life in upheaval but, when it happens to someone like me, it can be a life-threatening situation. You become a threat to yourself. That's why so many people I know who have Depressive Disorder are hardcore about keeping certain routines. If you find a routine that brings you peace and doesn't rock your psychological boat, you're going to hold on to it with a fierce passion and, if that routine is upset, it can send you into a tailspin.

I'm in that tailspin right now, and I'm doing my best to pull up.

But I'm scared. And my feelings about losing Aunt Tudi aren't even trying to hide right under the surface. And it's gonna get worse before it gets better, because I'm going to have to bunk with Blake in the old house until I can find another place to live, which means she'll be calling me in the night. And it's that main thing that drove me to so much self-destructive behaviour before I left for California. To be back there even for one day is almost unbearable to imagine, but it's going to happen whether I want it to or not.

I feel like my solar plexus has turned into a gordian knot, and my heart is beating funny. My entire body is responding to the stress and depression, and I'm afraid I'm going to fall ill, when that's the last damned thing I need right now. I've already got a urinary tract infection that I'm trying to beat on my own, because I can't afford an urgent care right now.What's worse is Smidgen's back leg weakness has magnified. I'm hoping it's just arthritis and the stress of travel making it worse, but she's old and I'm afraid it might be something more serious. And I can't take her to the vet. Of course, my mind instantly went there - that I'm going to watch her die because I was too sorry to take care of her. Why do I deserve to live when I can't properly make the lives of those I love have some measure of quality? If Smidgen dies, I am going to be beyond devastated, especially if I find out I could have prevented it somehow, if I had only done more or been more.My helplessness cannot be measured. I'm doing everything within my power, including writing this, to make sure hopelessness doesn't also get to that point, because I'm not sure I'll survive it.

Why do people ask you to pray for them or others who have lost a loved one to death? What good does it do? It’s not going to bring the person back. It won’t comfort any of the living, unless they’re delusional, which may be a good thing. Being delusional during a time of great loss can ease the pain because you’re fucking delusional. But prayer isn’t going to do shit for anyone. God isn’t going to speak to anyone, except for the ones who stopped their meds during this time of grief. It probably doesn’t exist and, in the slim chance it does, it’s too busy inspiring other delusional fuckers to oppress and kill their fellow Earthlings.

Fuck that noise.

How many times did people say to me “I’ll pray for you” after Aunt Tudi died? A lot of them, the Christians and xtians mainly, didn’t even ask for permission. They just told me how it was going to be, whether I liked it or not. Thanks for the support, assholes. I got to where I was pretty aggressive about telling them, “no you won’t. I don’t want your prayers. I don’t want anything like that, and I don’t give you permission to speak to your imaginary friend on my behalf. You’re not my representative. If you were, I’d ask you tell your pal in the sky to go fuck itself.”

Yes, I’m still angry about it. Every time I see someone make a prayer request for someone who’s suffered the death of a friend or family member, it makes me want to take a sledge hammer to anything that will break under the weight of my rage.

I don’t want to hear how everything happens for a reason and that god is good. I didn’t in 2011 and I still don’t. Keep your Wiccan candle-lighting and “in Jesus’ name”’s away from me. I don’t require sitting shiva, nor do I need any petitions to Allah on my behalf. The same goes for any other religion, god, prayer, or rattle-shaking.

Someone has died. No one will ever speak to them again. The ones who feel the pain the most don’t need the condescending clichés that infect our modern grieving process. In my case, and in many others’ if they’d be honest, it just makes things a thousand times worse. When you’re grieving, you don’t hear god. All you hear is the buzzing drone of inconsolability. If you’re too selfish in your personal beliefs to respect that, and still feel compelled to bring a deity into the mix, then fuck you, get out of my life.

I am kind of freaking out right now. At the age 5, I was enrolled in 1st grade, at which time I was swiftly and truly schooled by my classmates. I was not normal. Period. I wasn't allowed to dance to music like I'd always done before, without getting called names and being laughed at. My teacher gave me a time out for not being able to recite the Lord's Prayer, and when we were supposed to play games that called for teams, there was team A and team "Shit, she's the only one left." It was apparent, in no uncertan terms, that nothing about me was normal. And since my family moved around a lot, I wasn't normal at any school, so it had to be me, not them. I was given the advice to ignore it and they'd eventually go away, but they didn't. This ended, for the most part, while I was working at BMG, when I finally lost it on some asshole at J Records I was forced to work with. I had one more incident of bullying behaviour just yesterday, and I reacted viciously. To be honest, I can't remember everything that happened there, but I think I just on that thin line that separates verbal confrontation from physical altercation. Thirty-two (non-consecutive) years of bullying boiled up in my body, and I just fucking exploded. But I'm not here to talk about bullying. It seems I've done a lot of that since I've been on the Internet, and finding others like myself. The Island of Misfit Toys is a real place on Teh Intarwebz, located a little further north-west of Dr. Moreau's Island, and separated from Fantasy Island by the Sea of Dreams (yes, we can see y'all from from our winders). Enough of that, though. Let's get down to bidness.

I'm here to talk about feeling paranormally different since waking up on the 14th. The doctor said he removed 17 pounds of excess skin, fat, and other crap that wouldn't have ever otherwise gone away. I'm talking about hearing the nurse softly say in my ear, "breathe deeply", and then I woke up with parts of my body that have always been part of me since I began to gain more weight than other kids my age, at four years. The midsection of my stomach is mostly flat, but the lower part, the part that hangs down to your thighs when you stand, and makes you think that you have no lap whatsoever when you sit down - - well, it is gone. Totally fucking gone. Working on my computer has even changed, because my stomach was my prop, so I could work on my writing, promotions, and blogging while Smidgen curled up on my chest or upper abdomen. Now, I'm having dificulty trying to find a decent computer spot, so I can write this. I feel as though, if I were back east with the friends I have, I would hear them whisper about me not being me, reinacting one of the earlier scenes of Invasion of the Bodysnatchers.

On 14 September whilst waiting to be rolled back to the operating room, I was lying on my back with my elbow and hands touching the mattress, or I had my fingers interlocked on my midsection, and my elbows just dangled at each side. If I wanted to put my arms at my side, then my elbows could touch the mattress, but my fingers wouldn't meet. I couldn't do both and I never could. It was just a fact of life for me, even after the gastric bypass surgery in 2004. Now, my elbows can rest on the bed and my fingers can interlock at the same time. The Mother Unit was amused that my discovery of this amazed me so much. I know that doesn't sound like much, but when you've never been able to do it before, it's kind of a thing. The effect on my lower back was nearly instantaneous. A lot of that pull is gone, which was the main purpose for asking to get the procedures in the first place. Total success, right there. Despite currently feeling as though I have been thrown into the Iron Maiden at an Iron Maiden concert, my back already doesn't hurt as much, and I'm hoping the pain will continue to wane as I heal. I can feel the difference in my knees as well.

Psychologically, the immediate effect has not been as positive as I would have liked, but that's not the doctor's fault. Everything he did was exactly the procedures he signed on to do, and he did them expertise. The thing for me, though, was that I went to sleep in the body I'd had for around 32 years, and I woke up a stranger to myself. I'm not doing as well as perhaps I should in respect to mentally catching up to the physical tranformation. There are differences you would never think of, such as, seeing my own "cho-cha" (thank you, Missy Elliott) for the very first time in my entire life. Only a few hours after the surgery has over, I learned the women's cho-chas were supposed to look like this. It is still quite a surprise, because most laypeople or medical personnel would never think that such a change would be shockingly phantasmagoric. It's as though the doctor pulled everything up. From now on, whenever I see some crazy person in the park talking down her/his pants, I'm going to wonder if they had a panniculectomy and abdominoplasty. Such a shock to the visual senses is bizarre and unsettling. On the other hand, I might be that homeless crazy person taking to her own privates sooner than later.

I was told that the surgery took hours because the doctor wanted to be as thorough as possible while he was working. Based on some of the surgery pictures he'd shown me during our consultation, I have no doubt he was thorough. In fact, I think he did more than was authorised, probably because he knew I might need it down the road. I was already dead to the world, so why not? After a little bit of online research, what little time I've been online, I'm thinking that that extra something was some liposuction, considering I have two balls that catch the bloody water draining out of me, and bruises that just won't quit on my lower stomach, thighs, and cho-cha. Everything is relatively level now. I had fatty bits on my back that are gone now, too. After all this heals I will appear to be, more or less, like someone carrying a few extra pounds, but nothing people would gawk or throw vomit fat jokes in her direction.

My entire dieting life, I was told to chant the mantra "there's a thin person inside me that yearns to get out!" I was conditioned to dislike everything about me that anyone could see, while striving to look like the ones who are always at the front of the line to get their kick in before the day over. I was filled with a hell of a lot of animosity by the time I was approved for gastric bypass surgery, so much so that I had before and after pictures taken in the event someone told me I looked good. My plan was to whip those pictures out and ask them what they thought now! Over a time, especially when Aunt Tudi's health started to decline, I just grew weary of my verbal fight with society, and just gave up on avenging the evil so quantumly ingrained in us all by this mockery of our exsistence.

But, the other day, I was told it was good to see me, a "much thinner" me. I didn't say anything then, because I've been feeling like every hell imagined in every dimension that could currently be calculated by any Physics Academic, and to be perfectly frank, I did not want to be in a tiff, or what have you. Now, I'm a tad concerned that, in my heart, I know I may throat punch anyone who has ever known or seen me prior to the surgeries, but still comes out with that programmed bullshit, especially if they refer to having surgies to assist me lose the weight that was killing me as "taking the easy way out." I am not above going all Jack Torrance with an ax on any motherfucker who crosses that line, and thanks to those oh so very easy surgeries and recoveries that were alllll done for cosmetic reasons and nothing else, I'm lighter, limberer, and enthusiastically motivated to shut you up by ripping your jaw bone off your stupid brainless head and feeding it to Toby. Strangers who do not know me will get you one free pass but, if a stranger proving how much of a douche nozzle they are by judging another within my earshot may very well end up in an intimate relationship with my shoes and elbows. I haven't forgotten all the Kung Fu I was taught, and I'll probably be able to do them better now. You can be my practice.

The flesh a person is in, is not that person, but it can affect them in unimaginable ways. I feel like a stranger in a strange land now. I can't quite grasp the extent of my aura. Toby caught a glimpse of mm the other day, and barked at me as though I were a stranger. I'm wondering how Smidge will handle seeing her new old bed, unimpressed that it no longer has the cushioning she requires. I can get around things a bit easier, but still move like I need to squeeze, and that makes me look like I'm up to no good. I had some of these issues with the first surgery, but the effects came much more slowly, so my adjustments were more easily accepted. This time, not so much. Not even after the gastric bypass did I have a figure. Now that I do, I don't look right.

But just because I'm struggling doesn't mean I've lost one iota of my venom for humanity as a whole. Once built, or stolen, I can just shoot my lethal laser gun at the global urban centers while wearing some dumbass latex cat suit.

FUCK THE WORLD

Love, Tin

PS: If you find any spelling or grammatical mistakes in this, chalk it up to unbridled anger combined with full body pain. Thank you.

When I was still in The Pit, enjoying the interactions I had with a handful of sane music business homies, I often entertained a scenario where a snorkel of voracious, pissed-off weasels methodically skinned her alive, leaving her ravaged, bleeding form to get all manner of unwanted attention by creatures in the forest, who take their janitorial duties quite seriously. To be honest, that’s too good for her. Some people who are reading this post, can attest to a lot of what I’ve been saying about her since 2002, and I will attempt to communicate my memories of that. Essentially, we were at war with one another, not just work-wise, but creatively, business savvy (she had it all over me on that), and every single worldview to which each of us clung up to this very day).

This is someone who used the collective office phone to have a raucous conversation with a sales rep about she would have no clue on how to live on a $20-30K yearly budget, where all of her employees who were managing just that, listened on in disgust. This is someone who began threatening me with termination if, for the next 6 months, I had to drop out of work for even a half day. Aunt Tudi's doc appointments were a mess to reschedule and find other transport if I couldn't figure out how to work around the situation. On top of that, since my cube was right outside her office door, I was always the first one she'd come to each morning to say "G'mooooooorneeeeeeuuuunnn" and pretend civility.

And she loved to stand outside my cube and laud conservatives and everything they've ever done. One of our bitchiest fights was one night, when we were working over on promo campaigns, news came on the radio that Ronald Reagan had finally dropped dead. The Mistress had a sad. I said, "Thank fucking god. It's about time that piece of shit dropped dead. The world suddenly seems lighter and happier." She was scandalised, and began chanting all the good things he supposedly did for America. I shut her arse down with no mercy when I interrupted her to state that I was part Jewish and to watch a POTUS lay wreaths on SS officers graves after doing a PR tour of Bergen Belsen. "I was glad when I found out he was losing what little fucking mind he had, and I'm glad he's dead. I hope he suffered before the end, and I hope he's rotting in hell now."

We didn't speak for a couple of days.

Then a few months later, she was complaining about all the immigrants to me and the lady behind me, Joanie, who is Laotian. Being appropriate is a foreign concept to the Feudal Mistress. I let her say her self-inflated piece, which she ended by saying: "Besides, if they want to come into this country, they need to speak its language!"

To which I replied, "Oh, wow! I didn't know you could speak Cherokee! Let's hear you say something."

I was rewarded with two more days of peace and quiet. Before I left BMG, I purchased a special tee shirt I wanted to wear in a photograph with the Feudal Mistress. Politically, she may be a 9-volt battery, but she was pretty sharp when it came to passive-aggressive innuendo.The expression on our faces say it, don't you think? What I want to try to write about regarding our ongoing war that ended with the day the tee shirt I bought specifically to have a farewell taken with the Feudal Mistress, leaving no doubt in her mind that the entire front of my body is screaming murderdeathkill in a mild-mannered public service announcement. Whoever said that a picture speaks a thousand words should be honoured, or sainted, or given a So Good and True You Are, We Wish to Bestow upon Your Person, this Cliché Master's Medal of Honour.

The other day, I came across this article - and soon found myself in awe of the information the piece provided. It’s an image-heavy article, which means this post will also be image-heavy. I’m not copy-pasting the text, so I strongly suggest clicking this telling image to be taken to the full write-up, especially if you’ve had a breakdown, know someone who has had a breakdown, or you ever fell victim to one of my unexpected, late-night, inexplicable and incoherent ramblings via email, blog commentary, or any other method by which you and I maintain contact.

With each image that applies or have applied to my experience, I will share how it felt for me, if I suffered from the description in the picture. The first one here will show what will be behind the cut, should you decide to read further.

For me, this was not a sudden mindset, but a gradual one. In crises, I was always the one that held things together. I could switch off parts of my brain, and do what I needed to do at that moment in time. At the age of 12, I was the one who gave directions to the paramedics, when my great-grandmother had her massive stroke. Granny was a non-functioning, human-shaped manifestation of panic, and Aunt Tudi was frantically trying to get things ready for when the ambulance arrived to the point where, honestly, she was being a detriment to any progress we might could have had. It was only two days later that the upheaval found me, at which time I became non-functional for a period of time, just a few days. In times of turmoil, I realised I could take care of whatever situation I found myself, then release it all later in private. The only times I ever lost that ability was the night before Granny died in 1993. The doctors told us there was no hope, and she could die at any moment. Since Granny also helped to raise me, having lived with me all my life, I fell to pieces. But the next morning, when she died, I was cool as a cucumber. This was Aunt Tudi's mother, to whom she had been excessively close. This blow to her emotional well-being is something she never quite got over. I was the one who had to make Granny's arrangements, and I did so in a disconnected manner, devoid of bothersome emotions. Things needed to be done, and there was no one but me stepping up. I remember a cousin remarking that I had to be some sort of Vulcan, or just callous as hell.

Racism. We’ve all experienced it in one way or another. That is to say, we’ve witnessed it, participated in it (either consciously or subconsciously), or we’ve been on the receiving end of it.

I’m bringing this up, because I want to share the story of my first kiss with anyone who may read this.

First, a little background, for those who may not know: I was born in Asheville, North Carolina, but most of my life was intermittently spent 75 miles south of my hometown, in the Greenville/Spartanburg area of South Carolina. I began school in SC, but moved back to Asheville for a period of time after my parents’ divorce. There was a short period of time that Granny, Aunt Tudi, and I returned to SC, meaning I spent my entire 1st Grade in SC, prior to the break-up, as well as a portion of my 2nd Grade, which was split between Black Mountain Elementary in NC and Reidville Elementary in SC. We returned to Asheville shortly after the events I’m writing about here occurred. But, much to my dismay and displeasure at the age of 13, Granny and Aunt Tudi took me back to SC, where I finished school and worked for over 30 years. I objected to relocating back to SC then, and I’m still pissed about it to this very day. My first kiss is one of the primary reasons why.

I got my first kiss in the second grade. It wasn’t on my lips or my cheek. I was kissed on the hand. I was so excited something like this had happened, because I was always picked on about everything, from my weight to my clothes, and everything in between. I was mocked for not knowing the correct bible verses to recite, and denied that wondrous, magical silver star sticker by my name because of my affront to god. I assumed no one liked me and I would never fit in.

The little boy who kissed me like a knight would a princess was named Sam, and he was Black. But that didn’t matter to me at the age of 7. What mattered to me was I had been shown affection by someone outside my family. Out of glee, I told our teacher, clutching my right hand to my heart with my left. I wanted to shout it to the world! For once, something good happened to me when I was around other kids. For once, I felt like a part of the outside world.

I should never have said a thing to anyone.

My joy turned into regret, humiliation, guilt, and rage when the teacher ordered Sam to the front of the class. She told him he wasn’t allowed to kiss white girls, and he was made to apologise to me. He was in tears, I was in tears, and the kids in the class pointed and laughed at both of us. The teacher then made Sam go stand in the corner for thirty minutes.

When I got home, I told Aunt Tudi what had happened. I didn’t understand. That’s when she told me about Blacks in the South, how they had been slaves and, when they were freed, some of the whites had formed groups to make sure these ex-slaves didn’t get “uppity.” This was the first time I heard about the Ku Klux Klan, and how they would not only threaten and kill Blacks, but they would also do the same to their supporters. She told me how she had seen a cross burning in a neighbour’s yard back in 1966, in South Carolina. They were Civil Rights supporters. I was advised to be quiet about any interaction with the Black kids in my class, for their protection.

I was horrified.

What’s worse is Sam avoided me after that day. I’ve always wondered if he did so because he was afraid, or if it was because he thought I had told on him because he was Black. I may never know. All I knew is that I lost a friend because of an expression of fondness. By the teacher’s example, an act of bigotry and cruelty was taught as appropriate behaviour on that day. Looking back on this, and so many other moments like it throughout my school days, I perceive it as affirmation that, although physical segregation was no longer practiced, mental segregation was very much in full effect, and has only flourished over the decades.

While we were being “encouraged” to memorise bible verses, we were also silently being indoctrinated into the categories we never chose for ourselves. Children are tabula rasa. Anything can be etched into their psyche to become a testimony to their environment and their generation. Instead of praising kids for public displays of affection, the status quo prefers to instill fear and hatred of differences. This is why our culture celebrates violence and curls its lip at love. This is why you can watch a person get shot on TV, but sex is reprehensible.

This is why racism still exists, and I doubt it will ever go extinct.

I’d like to think that Sam might somehow come across this journal entry, so the record can be set straight for him. I’d like to think that day in the classroom was his last experience with racism. But I’m a realist.

Just in case, though…

Sam, thank you for being my knight in shining armour that day, and I am so sorry for getting you in trouble. I hope you’re happy and healthy, and that you never stopped being such a sweet little dude. I hope you never shied away from your nature because our society’s priorities are so fucked up, and getting worse.

A practice most often encouraged by an extremist minority found in any religion, who are not satisfied to be alone in their struggle to fully embrace and encourage fatuous mythology, which eventually results in participating in unsavoury activities of which this list is but a small portion:

Vote rigging.

Rewriting history.

Picketing for the sole purpose of badgering the people around them

Rewording or omitting passages in their own holy book to better reflect their own dogma.

Threatening and defaming naysayers, most especially if the targeted individuals are often in the public eye.

Obstruction of people’s rights with which they disagree

Supporters of and participants in this movement work toward manifesting their primary agenda, which isto remake their nation(s) into a theocratic state that will impose the ruling minority’s dogma on the vast majority who wouldn’t otherwise take notice.

Adherants to Aggressive Stupidity are present in every religion and, unfortunately because they are the most raucous, they get the most attention, and even get their way, if it means they would just shut the fuck up. Other than the title by which they identify, these groups are almost identical with one another, even if groups under the Stupidity umbrella often fight one another, and do so publicly, accusing their enemy du jour of crimes both feuding parties enthusiastically commit. (Tea Party, please meet your brothers from another mother, the Taliban.)

They seek out the weak to use as proof of god’s displeasure with man, to further bills criminalising homelessness and poverty, giving free rein to those keen on dehumanising them, and eventually manipulate some of them, most of whom were suffering from a religious variation of Stockholm Syndrome into becoming agents dedicated to perpetuating propaganda, which serves to justify the totalitarian occupancy of already defeated nations, and increase the crusade budget with the intention of instituting a global theocracy. When you're hungry and desperate, you're more prone to accept the tenets of those who give you bread.

Listed below are some of the tools and weapons used by the Aggressively Stupid to aid in the forging of a government based on the idea that the minority has the right to exercise authority over the majority:

Support of and/or participation in discriminatory behaviour, claiming that some actions, opinions, or beliefs are ordained by God. Such discrimination polices and many others instituted by the new government are often brutally enforced by an increasingly militarised policing body.

Monetary contributions to political campaigns that are sympathetic to many, if not all, hot button issues about which the Aggressively Stupid obsess.

Erasing the lines that separate Church and State by passing out voter guides in church and pamphlets sharing the “Good News” at secular events such as concerts and conventions. Another example of these tactics used by extremists is the funding of lobby groups that will help advance the budding theocracy’s influence over the population.

Unabashed recruitment and conversion to assist in either growing the controlling body or encouraging unwavering loyalty alongside compulsive witness bearing, all in the name of God.

Bullying and shaming in the attempt to silence rebellious individuals, omit from history any behaviour or activities deemed deviant by the ruling elite, and making nonconformity illegal.

Attempts, some of which have actually been successful, to reinstate the old pecking order originally blueprinted by god himself, that affirms man's dominance over anything else that is not human or does not have a penis. Of course, this declaration is referring to white men only, according to the extremists. Everyone else is subject to the whims of the future theocracy's officials.

It was Aggressive Stupidity that led to Yeshua’s death, which is, in equal measure, tragic and ironic, considering today’s coteries and megachurches full of Aggressively Stupid acolytes, some of whom use his name to promote their agenda, would doubtlessly be the first to scream for capital punishment of this heretic who dared to challenge the authority established in his name.

This picture, which will take you to the Satanic Temple's website if you click it, may get some people's panties in a bunch, but I'm expecting the ones who take offense also support public land being used to provide citizens with religious messages, statues, displays, and so on, but only as long as the messages are xtian. Because of the high probability that those who frown on my opinions here are the perpetrators, even if expressed passively, of the destruction of American society, and I really couldn't care less if I hurt their tender feelings.

What is so glorious about the Satanic Temple's method of exposing this blatant hypocrisy is that they present logical arguments that can't rationally be refuted without the objectors relinquishing their religious privilege or coming across as the lunatic fringe extremists that they really are. The Temple also provides proof of the double standard theocrats have long enjoyed and employed to their benefit, via public records, laws, amendments, and so on, presenting to the government at the center of whatever religious spat is currently heating up all of the documents that support their claims and requests to take part in true religious liberty. They do this in a methodical, rational, objective way, which sadly seems alien, given the insanity the xtians have inflicted on the US for decades. This ploy is just pure genius, because when the xtians come in direct conflict with the Satanists in any forum that is easily accessible by anyone, they invariably look like the fruit loops they really are, in contrast to the calm, collected, professional demeanor of the "bad guys."

In addition to all this, the Satanic Temple has been able to editorialise our current society, highlighting how truly fucked up America is, mainly because of efforts on the part of our American Taliban to erase the lines that separate Church and State. Also, from what I understand about their ideology and religious observances, they are furthering their own spiritual evolution on the path they have chosen by doing all of this. As I said on someone else's timeline a few hours ago, who better to play Devil's Advocate than an organised group of actual, practicing Devil's Advocates? What's even more hilarious is the fact that the theocrats are directly responsible for disseminating the Satanic Temple's message by making underhanded demands for so-called "religious freedom." When jackholes get their arses handed to them by people employing the very tactics said jackholes have been perfecting for decades, a can of Red Bull gets its wings.

Willful blindness was why we didn’t see Cosby as creepy before. It was why many people had never heard of these accusations: because the media forgot about them, too. Nobody wanted to believe this about America’s favorite dad. Powerful people in Hollywood felt it was to their financial benefit to overlook it. Now, suddenly, it is not.

(Click pic for the full editorial.)

What I'm about to opine is not a defense of Bill Cosby; rather, it's a condemnation of the industry of which he is a part or, for that matter, any place in society that allows a person to presume they are immune from the consequences of their wrongdoing. We've seen it before in the entertainment industry, and we'll see it again, just as we've witnessed horrible accounts come to light in the political, religious, law-enforcement, and military arenas in a neverending slideshow of insanity.

The only way anything will ever change is if society stops glorifying money over ethics, and endeavour to create a reality where those who cannot boast a lofty station can still expect the benefit of the doubt, and those who had previously always enjoyed the luxury of being above the law are held accountable for their crimes. Only then will the next Michael Brown not get gunned down in broad daylight and the next Cosby or Stephen Collins pay for the damage they've done to women, children, and a generation's trust.

If that happened, perhaps those who are trying to feed the homeless would no longer be arrested and tried for the transgression of kindness, while others are celebrated in the media for having litters of children on a planet struggling to sustain the life already here, or still others bask in the knowledge that their activities in human trafficking and child molestation will almost always remain unknown because they are influential/rich enough to maintain a convenient invisibility.

Do I ever see that happening? Will the Pat Robertsons, Mama Junes, and Dr. Ozs carry on, business as usual, as they laugh at our obvious willingness to be duped? Will public acts of affection between Gays continue to be demonised while adoration of all things martial in nature is endlessly encouraged? Will we learn before we end up destroying ourselves and countless other truly innocent Earthlings?

Bill Cosby is not an exception, he's the rule. And most everyone is too stupid or too afraid to acknowledge that, because it would mean we'd have to take a good long look at ourselves in that mirror, and ask ourselves if we would have done the same thing, if we thought we could get away with it.

A few minutes ago, I went out to get something more to drink. For some reason, today, I can't seem to get enough liquid. As usual, Matt policed what I was taking in, commenting that I never drank water, it was always just soda. This is patently untrue. I was actually throwing out my Mountain Dew bottle and going back to the kitchen for my cold bottle of water.

I don't know what led to this point but, for some reason, Matt felt it wise to comment that I should throw the Mother Unit out along with the Mountain Dew bottle, then warned me not to get a hernia. Even though I already knew what he was implying, I played dumb and asked him what he meant. He made some offhand remark about the Unit's weight.

I fucking went cold as ice from there. I told him that we could joke about pretty much anything and, even though we did seriously bicker at times, I was usually cool with our incessant ragging on one another, except for this particular subject.

Flustered, Matt said, "I'm just, I'm just sayin'..."

"You're just saying you're a fucking bully," I responded. "You realise that most people, when fat-shamed, often gain more weight, rather than losing. And, not only that, like everything else in the world, a person's weight is influenced by genetics."

"No," he said. "I'm the reason your mom gained weight." I'm assuming this was a way of saying he is a fabulous cook, and people can't resist eating more than they should because it's so tasty. Right.

I then said: "I'm still trying to figure out which one of your parents is the massive asshole, because that's genetic, too, and you're a major one."

I wasn't kidding. I don't kid about this particular subject. It's been one of my number one rants since my time here on The Cliffs of Insanity.

When I was a kid being tormented by others who grew up to be just like Matt, I would just withdraw, hoping that the "sticks and stones" myth would actually fucking work. It doesn't. It never has, and it never will. The only way to confront a situation like this is to do so aggressively and without hesitation.

I will not tolerate this kind of behaviour in regards to myself, but especially when it comes to my mother. This has long been my stance on my tribe and myself. You can diss on me, but expect me to diss right back. But, if you diss on my Tribe, those I love and am grateful for their presence in my life, expect a merciless response over a long period of time, because I fucking hold grudges and am always on the lookout for ways to repay your unkindness threefold.

I notice things about people, and I carry these observations until I might be able to make use of them in some way. My observations have brought me to several conclusions that would probably make for unpleasant conversations if the weight subject is brought up again. I hope it isn't, mainly for the Unit's sake. She doesn't deserve the discord Matt and I generate. But I can't not defend her.

When I was as young as three years old, I believed without question the existence of god. At four, I began wearing a towel on my head (don't go there with the jokes...), held down by a plastic mixing bowl, to pretend I was a nun. I also attended temple a couple of times with the Mother Unit. I got my first taste of wine there. Mogen David FTW!

At the age of five, in my first grade class, we were all required to recite psalm 23. Since my family was of mixed faith, and not excessively religious (I was probably the most "devout" at that time), I knew no bible verses by heart. I was the only one in my class not to get a silver star by her name. Looking back, this was my first experience with indoctrination in a setting that should have been more in line with the law of separation of church and state. It was mortifying, to say the least. I remember crying all the way home and staying up well past my bedtime to memorise the psalm, but was never called on in school to clear my name as a godless fiend. During this time, I also got it into my head that I wanted to be a preacher.

Aunt Tudi explained to me that I couldn't be nun, because I wasn't Catholic, and female preachers are few and far between, and usually weren't respected or listened to. So that was that.

A few months before my sixth birthday, my family exploded, when the Mother Unit requested a divorce. During this time, a pastor started frequenting the house. He'd take me for rides in the car on occasion, and we'd sing the BINGO song. While he was showing the face of a concerned man of god during this difficult time in the family's life, the family comprising of the Units, Granny, and Aunt Tudi, he was discreetly fleecing anything of worth from an already desperately poor family. I didn't find out that last part until years later, but I had always wondered why he suddenly stopped visiting, especially when I felt I needed him most, after the break-up was finalised and my Father Unit had a nervous breakdown. It turns out he got what he wanted, which was pretty much everything we had had as a family unit.

While I was being verbally terrorised by the Father Unit, as he instructed me to despise the Mother Unit for all she had done, and telling me she had never loved me, otherwise she wouldn't have left, I prayed fervently to a god that never seemed to hear me. I felt adrift. I never felt safe. When I got to see her, Granny would tell me the story of Job, and that all I needed was to hold on to my faith, and eventually everything would be okay.

But it wasn't. I had my home, my neighbourhood, my parents, and my favourite grandmother and aunt taken away from me, until the authorities decided on what to do with me. By the time I was seven, I was living with Aunt Tudi and Granny, in an A-frame chalet in Black Mountain, North Carolina. I still wanted to believe in the existence of a higher power, so I began reading the bible frequently. Aunt Tudi bought me a Rainbow Bible. I still have it...I think.

I remember reading about Gideon in Judges, how he wanted proof of the existence of god, and put the deity to a test. This verse, Judges 6:39, impacted me:

And Gideon said unto God, Let not thine anger be hot against me, and I will speak but this once: let me prove, I pray thee, but this once with the fleece; let it now be dry only upon the fleece, and upon all the ground let there be dew.

I figured if Gideon could do this, and be answered by god, surely I could too. It was in the bible, so it must be something that was true and could be repeated. I got a dry washcloth and, placing it in the very back of my closet, asked god to let me know he was with me, that he did listen to me, by making the cloth wet by morning.

Morning came, and I rushed to the closet with hope and expectation. The cloth was dry.

I could not bring myself to say there was no god. Atheism is still unthinkable in the Southeast United States, but back in the 70s, the very word itself was an abomination. I could not not believe in god. But I learned a new word - agnostic. From 1975 until 1988, I was an agnostic. That doesn't mean I didn't have spiritual experiences. I had a few throughout my life, like the revelation of Durga at the age of five, and the irrefutable holy feeling upon seeing the beginning of the movie Xanadu, featuring Jeff Lynne's music. Even Star Wars triggered a spiritual reaction in me, which I found out later was a very natural one, considering the use of archetypes and stories older than even our most ancient ancestors.

In 1988, I began studying Wicca. I felt like I'd come home. Here was a spiritual place that you carried within you, a way of life that held everyone (male, female, human, non-human - all life) in a kind of reverence. It renewed my belief in magick and the possibility of a life of wonderment. By 1990, I had become a New Age Fluffy Bunny. By 1992, I was a High Priestess in the Caledonii Tradition. Even though I eventually turned to solitary practice and dropped the Wiccan label, preferring the cognomen of Witch, my faith never faltered.

Until 2011. On August 25th, 2011, I was catapulted into the gravest spiritual crises I'd ever known. It was different this time. I didn't feel as though god/dess was not listening to my prayers; rather, I found I had nothing to say to any deity. If people would ask, I'd nonchalantly say that I was going through a spiritual crisis or that I was a Pagan-leaning agnostic.

Monday will mark the third anniversary of Aunt Tudi's death. When it happened, people wanted to pray for me, or pray with me. They tried to comfort me with praise of god/dess. I felt myself being offended and angry, not just with deity, but also with the people who seemed to crawl out of the woodwork to use my tragedy to turn me to god. On Christmas Eve, I called my Aunt Josephine to wish her a merry Christmas. I was only four months out from losing Aunt Tudi, so the wound was still raw (honestly, it still is). Instead of giving me any sort of comfort in her own way, instead of even wishing me a merry Christmas back, Josephine proceeded to tell me that I needed to get right with god; otherwise, I wouldn't see Aunt Tudi in the afterlife, as she was in heaven, and I was definitely headed for hell. That was the last time I ever talked to her.

Three years on, and where am I as far as my quest for a higher power or my need to commune with deity? In all honesty, I would have to say that I've crossed that line between agnosticism and atheism. With all the horror I see in the world now, I prefer the idea that there is no god as opposed to one that seems to revel in the continuous abject suffering of its creations. I have no patience for any of it, in whatever incarnation people claim it exists. I want no part of it.

Now some may say that this is simply my own version of the descent of the goddess, and they can believe that all they want to. If I've been descending, then this post is the end of my journey, because I don't plan on ascending. There is nothing up there for me.

So yeah, I think it is pretty safe to say that I am an atheist. Looking back on my experiences with the spiritual world, I can see now that it was an inevitability.

Weird Al Yankovic has a new album out and, in case you’ve been living under a rock, you know that he’s releasing a video for a new song each day, for eight days.

So far, they’ve all been brilliant. How could they not be? It’s Al-Freakin’-Yankovic! One of them, though, has really stood out for me. That would be “Foil.” Check it out here. I’ll wait.

When it was released, I made the prediction that, within a week or less, Conspiracy Theorists would experience the paranoiacs’ equivalent of nuclear holocaust. I was wrong. It began less than 24 hours after ‘Foil’ graced screens everywhere. One person even suggested that Al is a high-ranking Illuminatus. I’m too astounded to laugh, even though I knew it was gonna happen.

I’m not saying Al Yankovic is or isn’t a member of the Illuminati. Either way, it wouldn’t matter to me, because I typically side with Robert Anton Wilson on the theory that we are all a part of the conspiracy, which means this Illuminatus is writing what you Illuminati are currently reading. Mindfuck Ahoy!

I started researching conspiracies and secret societies in 1988, when Timothy lent me his book, Holy Blood, Holy Grail, and it fired my imagination when I first started forming the foundation of what would become The Vampire Relics. I’ve read tons of stuff over the years and, at times, wholeheartedly believed that something was up. In 1990, my conspiracy research got seriously ramped up with the dinky (and I do mean dinky - the lettering is incredibly tiny) mention of “Illuminati” on the back of Shriekback’s Dancing Years CD, which I acquired just a few months after reading The Illuminatus Trilogy by Robert Shea and Robert Anton Wilson.

Things just seemed to fit together, so I joyously welcomed my overabundant paranoia. This was me for quite some time.

Of course, it didn’t help when Sacred City came out on the World Domination label and the liner notes encouraged people to be a part of the Shriekback Global Conspiracy. Hey, I was a sheltered kid who read way too much into everything, so cut me some slack.

Over the years, though, I have grown a bit jaded about it all, not to mention aggressively cynical. I think my last true fit of paranoia came with the LOST numbers, and their specific inclusion of 23 (The 23 Enigma was always a favourite of mine). Even with those numbers, though, it’s your perception that drives your personal reality when addressing the lush symbology of that show. Douglas Adams’ fans, of whom I am one, got caught up in 42. I digress, though. This isn’t about LOST, it’s about a level of hilarity that could never have been imagined by even the most diehard Conspiracy Theorists two decades ago.

If a global conspiracy had never existed before the rise of The Internet, it certainly exists now, if only on a quantum level. I still believe that what you think and believe has a lot to do with the reality that you perceive, and it eventually defines you. Despite my apparent inability to break out of some of my personal mind traps, I don’t think I will ever find a better theory of “what IS” than that, at least not in this life.

Anyway, in the past twelve hours, some jack-ass has elevated Weird Al to the level of high-ranking Illuminatus. Yes, you read that correctly. The other side of this is that Weird Al is trying to warn people about the Illuminati, and some of the things he mentions in the song could only be known by someone who has done a great deal of research. Both of these positions are utterly ridiculous. First, if Al were an Illuminatus, he would not expose his peeps on a global level, if the conspiracy is still being realised. Second, if Al is not Illuminatus, it doesn’t take much deep research these days to reference supposedly obscure terms like “psychotronic scanning”, thanks to The Internet being a giant vibrating ball of reptilian-hating suspicion.

To my knowledge, Weird Al Yankovic has never publicly taken any sort of position on anything, not to mention that he is a genuinely good person. This, in and of itself, is pure genius, because this makes him accessible to everyone, not just Jesus Freaks, Hipsters, Conspiracy Theorists, or Joe the Plumber. You can be a complete dickhead but, if you like Al, there’s got to be something good about you. That’s just my opinion, but I think it could very well be a great truth in this age of deception. When everyone else is trying to tear people apart, here comes Al Yankovic uniting a whole shit-ton of opposing crusaders under the blessed umbrella of hilarity.

Does “Foil” alarm me? No more than anything else, these days. My thinking is, there comes a time in a Conspiracy Theorist’s life when you just have to say “FUCK IT” and enjoy the ride. If there is a New World Order, it has been new for a pretty goddamn long time, because nothing ever really changes, except the names and dates, and there’s really nothing we can do about it. Years ago, I saw Bette Midler do this schtick called “Angst on a Rope.” She’d present all manner of horrible things in her life, then pretend she was in the shower with her Angst on a Rope, and say, in the most nasal Yiddish tone she could achieve (and that’s saying a lot), “WHY BOTHAAAAAH?” I’m pretty much right there. If “they” have all the power the theorists say “they” have, we’re already fucked, so the least we can do is immerse ourselves in the joy of another Weird Al Yankovic album. In a world as fucked as as the one in which we find ourselves, the very thing any of is need is a song like “Foil,” whether or not you believe the conspiracies are true. Personally, I think the one true act of rebellion any of us really have is laughter.

If any of us deserve anything, it is the gift of laughter, even if the hilarity is triggered by a Reptilian Agent of Doom like Weird Al Yankovic.

The Cliffs of Insanity turns 12 tomorrow. In pre-college years, it would be graduating high school.

I began this journal 2 years before Smidgen came into my life. I began this journal 9 years before losing Aunt Tudi. I began this journal 11 years before abandoning everything I had ever truly ever known, and moved west with the Mother Unit, what little hope I thought I had left, nestled away in a tiny pocket I keep buried in my brain.

Over the course of these twelve years, I have experienced love and shock and passion and success. I've seen dreams come true and hopes shattered. I have forged my own philosophies, and I have returned to my long-term position of agnosticism. I have met some miraculous souls and bonded friendships whilst, at the same time, losing friends I never thought I'd say goodbye to. I've lost the most important person in my life, which threw me into an admission to myself I still can't write about. Some have already guessed, but I have never, nor will I ever, acknowledge it. Unspoken love is unspoken for a reason.

I have tried to commit suicide more than once. As this post clearly indicates, I'm rather deficient in that talent. Do I still think about it? Every day. The thought of it comforts me in a way nothing else can.

It has been my friends, more than anything, that have kept me alive. Most often, I thank them for this, but I wouldn't be honest if I didn't say I resent their meddling. I'm not a brave person, nor am I a hard worker, or anything special enough to really be missed in this world. I most often feel like a burden to my family and many of my friends. My logic is, the world would be better off without me. Then again, the world would be better off without humanity, period. I'm just offering to volunteer as one of the first to go.

Still, I persist, as does The Cliffs of Insanity. If you've been with me for the majority of this decade, you know the blog's name lives up to its legacy. I would hope that Wallace Shawn would be proud.

I don't know what the next 12 years will bring, if they bring anything else. I hesitate to predict, because I would never have predicted some of the things that happened in the first 12 years of the 21st Century. I'll leave that mumbo-jumbo up to Miss Cleo. Just know that, in my own anti-social and vicious way, I love all of you, and I hope you love me too, if only for a brief moment in this infinity of uncertainty we call existence.

I was a severely bullied child, from 1st grade (I didn't go to Kindergarten) through college. I was labeled the "fat kid," the "poor kid," the "shy kid," the "weird kid," and the "freak," among other wonderful cognomens. I wasn't just bullied by classmates; I was bullied by family members, teachers and, at one point, even the lunch lady.

Before I started school, I was prone to spontaneous public dancing and using anything for percussion. I wasn't particularly good at either activity, but I didn't do it to be good, I did it because it brought me joy. Like every living thing, I was an extension of the multiverse's attempt to understand and be joyful.

My social awkwardness upon going to school, combined with my weight and financial status, hurtled me headlong into two decades of isolation, insulation, and resentment. I was the number one target of kid bullies, as well as being the whipping "boy" of my great-grandmother, who felt me to be inferior to her other grandchildren and great-grandchildren, because I was the grandchild of her least favourite child, and the product of a, by then, broken home that triggered my father's nervous breakdown. To her, I was never pretty enough, smart enough, or good enough for anything.

That didn't stop me from wanting to be.

As I look back on it now, my being bullied only made me want acceptance even more. I think it's a part of human nature to want to be a part of the tribe, to want to be worthy of a smile that doesn't come with mocking comments.

Wanting to be a part of it all stopped for me in 1998. I gave up. I surrendered to the long-boiling derision I felt for my fellow humans. I turned away from thinking I could make a difference in anything because, from my perception and experience, nothing ever really changed.

I understood the mindset behind those who went postal, and I admitted to myself that, had I ever found a similar opportunity, I probably would have gone postal myself at some point, but only before I stopped wanting a place in the tribe. See, if you no longer care about such, then that level of anger is illogical. You don't care enough about others to even want to hurt them.

It's a precarious balance, and one that a lot of people aren't comfortable with acknowledging.

What's so strange is, soon after I stopped giving one single fuck about any of it, and airing my opinions about our fractured species, people began seeking out my friendship. I don't think it would have ever turned out like it did, if not for the Internet, but happen it did. There are places in the virtual landscape populated with tribes and nations of the dispossessed. Sometimes, that's not necessarily a good or healthy thing but, overall, I believe it to be healing, revelatory, and revolutionary.

Here's the punchline, though: I don't think any of it would exist, had it not been for bullies. The kids bullied a generation ago are the adults who created the world we have today. Bullies are an integral ingredient in the cyclic reality in which we find ourselves. There are kids who tried harder, who found refuge in their works of art and science, who sought for a deeper meaning, because the bullies egged them on into those directions where they could not themselves follow.

Sometimes, it doesn't turn out that way. Sometimes, a Columbine happens, or we find ourselves reading a manifesto written by Elliot Rodger, and watching his farewell before his day of retribution. Of course, his acts gave all us Professional Misanthropes a bad name, but I digress.

In so many ways, our world is a much better place because bullies denied their classmates, family members, students, or neighbours a place amongst them. Should we thank them?

No.

But we should acknowledge them for their part in fulfilling one of the laws of physics, that, for every action, there's an equal and opposite reaction. Their violence and harm manifested a miraculous existence where thoughts, music, and images dash about on the air.

What will the bullies help create in the future? I'm excited to find out.

So one of the many "Christians" in South Carolina had the misfortune to post this over on Facebook, at precisely the moment I'm feeling my most inciteful.

And I was compelled to speak my mind.

Even if I'm Gay? Even if I'm not a Christian? Even if I've had an abortion? Even if I enjoy the occasional beer? Even if I've had sex and have not been married? Even if I curse like a sailor? Even if I call you Goddess, because I can't conceive of a 100% male deity? Even if I don't vote Republican? Even if I'm an Atheist? Even if I've stolen money to feed my family? Even if I play Dungeons & Dragons? Even if I believe our dominion over the earth and its animals means I should protect and cherish your creations, instead of exploiting what you've so generously bestowed upon us? Even if I actually practice what I preach all week, not just on Sunday? I'm just trying to see the small print on this letter. I don't want God's lawyers to sue me for a breach of contract. I hear he can afford the best.

It just occurred to me that most everything is going to be closed on Monday. This is irritating, because I had plans to call around and find a different doctor.

When I moved out here to San Diego, my insurance had to be changed, so I went with Aetna, because the plan is really good, really free, and it affords me dental. The only problem is, I have to have an in-network doctor, which was initially chosen for me by the rep, to get me started in the program.

Well, I went to that doctor week-before-last and, besides their having a huge picture of a blondish Jesus with the caption "I love you, Jesus," hanging prominently in the waiting room, the tables are littered with religious tracts, a mag called Good News, and sundry children's Bible story books.

But the clencher was the "terms of service" they had me sign, basically stating that I know they're a pro-life practice who will not give me the Morning After Pill, even in cases of rape. I have to go to the E/R for such hellish behaviour. I signed it, because I really needed to see the doctor, since some of my old prescriptions were running out, and I knew I would need to get referrals to specialists who prescribe me some of these.

The doctor would not write any prescriptions, like my seizure medicine and anti-depressant (Wellbutrin), saying that she'd get back with me "right away" on those referrals, so I wouldn't run out. I haven't heard from this doctor yet and guess what? I've run out of my seizure medicine.

I have no reason to stick with this asshole or her fake colleagues. Just because I'm a female does not mean I should be denied any kind of healthcare I need (or WANT).

When I said I was looking forward to meeting as many freaks in California as possible, I did not mean Jesus freaks. Although that's not really fair to Jesus, who would be hanging out with all the freaks if he were here today…and lynched by his so-called worshippers because of it.

But no… This doctor can suck it. Don't tell me she doesn't. They all do, especially the supposedly virtuous ones.

In the past year, I have learnt that if you find yourself unable to behave in a manner more comfortable for those who have been your "friends" for years, and you begin to deal with issues that cannot be avoided in the best way you know how, there are many so-called friends who deem it perfectly feasible to abandon you when you probably need them the most.

Therapists most often place the burden of "isolating" on the individual going through such a transition, when I don't think it's that at all. I think it's finding oneself in the untenable situation of being cut loose at sea in a region of emotional water that is alien, frightening, and dangerous, without even a life raft or flotation device that might once have been provided by people who would have provided such a thing based on the convenience or comfort level for them.

I learned today that I was "blocked" on a social networking site because my attitude, albeit mostly jokingly, was intolerable to the person who blocked me. This person and I have for many years been at philosophical odds, which was a fascinating and educational dynamic to put it mildly, but we always found a common ground, and were always honest with one another regarding our feelings about life in general and our true love for one another. I felt I could always depend upon her for her honesty with me and I had hoped she felt the same about me. Apparently, since I have found it downright impossible to even pretend a tolerance of fluffy-bunniness over the past year, she has taken my position regarding such behaviour as personal and has blocked me from her life on certain levels.

Friendships should be friendships either 100% or not at all. At least, that's my opinion, be it humble or no. Am I hurt by this revelation? Yes. Surprised? I'd like to say so, but I'm really not. The most "tolerant" and "all-inclusive" people often turn out to be the most hypocritical, I've come to learn. This is someone I came to know in "real life," pre-Internet. She has always known I've walked a darker path. She seemed to have always accepted that, just as I accepted what I believed to be an irrational optimism in the face of obvious desolation.

And, like so many others have since Aunt Tudi's death, she's chosen to distance herself from me when I need people the most. My therapist says the best thing for me is to have more human contact. If I have to act in order to obtain such contact, I'm not really sure that's really all that healthy. One thing for certain is, though, my friends I've made through the Internet are much more precious to me now than ever before. If it weren't for many of you, I honestly doubt I'd be here at all right now. Take that for what it's worth, either a blessing, a curse, a burden, or an honour; none of the above, or a combination of them all. It's just a simple fact I'm putting out there.

For those who know when my joking is just that, joking, and take what I say and do with the big chunk of salt it requires, I commend you for your courage and your friendship. I am grateful to you, and I hope you love and trust me enough to tell me if I ever upset you by my actions either in word or deed. Despite my plunge into full-on agnosticism, I still do believe in the Threefold Law and "'An in harm none, do what ye will." It is not my intent to harm anyone, except for maybe myself at times. I respect everyone I know. That's why my friends base is comprised not just of Pagans and Liberals, but also of scientists, Conservatives, Christians, Muslims, Jews, Atheists, LGBTs, and so many others who decide to take on whatever labels you choose. I respect you all. I learn from you all. We all have something of worth to share with one another. If we shut off one aspect of such interaction, to me, it's like performing an amputation without the proper surgical tools and without anaesthetic.

Yes, my outlook on life has gotten considerably darker in the past year. I would think that's when friends rally around one another, when they see one of their own in pain. This is obviously how it does not work, not in this imperfect human world where one hurt exponentially leads to another. A major life change most definitely puts into perspective who your real family and real friends are. My circle is decidedly much smaller than I could have ever imagined, and it grieves me on a level I can't sufficiently translate into words. I'd like to say that I would be there for any one of you, in whatever situation you find yourself in, regardless of how convenient or inconvenient it might be for me. That's what friends are for, at least that's how I've always understood the definitiion.

I will say this, and it's an admission that literally kills me to make, but make it I must: this new development has driven me to tears. And it shakes my already tenuous faith in humanity and the power of friendship, if there is even such a power that actually exists. It's moments like this that gives credence to my proclivity to reclusiveness, just to turn my back on the entire world and die hopefully sooner than later alone, like I apparently am.

I've spent too many years of my life being friends to people who find it very easy to cut me off simply because our ideals don't match and I've become an inconvenience to them. If you surround yourself with people exactly like yourself, how do you ever hope to grow? You don't. It's only a proliferation of what you believe to be the one true and right way. It's narcissistic if you ask me.

There is no one true and right way. There is only the best way through it all, with the best people you can find, to help you get by and who will allow you to have the honour to do the same for them in whatever way you are capable. It's a learning experience. The greatest test is when the relationship is rocked by tragedy or joy, any extreme of any kind. If it can't hold up, it was a lie from the very beginning.

Over the past few months, I've been in awe of the number of lies that have wrapped around me in the guise of wondrous ribbons so full of beauty that they could make even the master Elvensmiths of Tolkien's universe weep in response. But pretty ribbons and empty words disintegrate when the actuality of the Real raises its all-too-often ugly head.

It's not even the end of the first month of 2013, but already have I experienced the best and worst of what humanity can offer. The funny thing is, the best comes from people I've never met in real life, and the worst comes from individuals with whom I've carried on a relationship for 15 years. If this is any indication of what 2013 holds for me, I easily foresee a redefinition of the words friendship and family.

In the 1980, I came to ELO via the sad wee Roller-disco flick Xanadu. I set to converting my family to the band, and to Jeff Lynne particular. It was joked that I should have been a evengelist because of my powers of persuasion

Jeff Lynne was my first love, the one who imprinted upon me what I would find in gender of my choice, the reason for my greatest heartaches and most triumphant moments in life. I've had his new album for a week now and am only now mustering the courage to play the CD on the computer. It's the first ELO/Jeff Lynne song I've listened to without Aunt Tudi being there to listen with me.

I remember over the last few years of Aunt Tudi's years, she'd often bemoan about how I rarely listened to Jeff. There were reasons for these. First of all, the only chance I got to listen to my music was in the car but, because Aunt Tudi was always in the car with me. My carefree days of hope had been replaced with a darker worldview, which Shriekback much more effectively soundtracked. That's not even how well they worked in forging the plots for my books. ELO and Vampires do not go well together.

I converted my family to ELO, then I had to move on, because that person had become someone else. I often wonder how many incarnations there are of the same person, but in different aspects, in one person. There's a huge part of me that wishes I could recapture the Magic of that Xanadu era, discovering that I had a marginal talent for writing science fiction, having one of my first conscious Goddess experiences (ONJ was the muse Terpsichore in the move Xanadu).

And now we have 'Long Wave' a collection of standards Jeff grew up with that helped form his own musical personality. What is so heartbreaking is, a lot of these songs I often listened to when I was a kid because they were some of Aunt Tudi's favourite songs, not to mention that I grew up watching Lawrence Welk.

Now, there's invariably always one song on each Lynne album that seems like it's Jeff singing straight to me. For 'Long Wave,' it's the Charlie Chaplin song "Smile."

Smile though your heart is achingSmile even though it's breaking.When there are clouds in the skyyou'll get by.If you smile through your pain and sorrowSmile and maybe tomorrowYou'll see the sun come shining through For you.Light up your face with gladness,Hide every trace of sadness.Although a tear may be ever so nearThat's the time you must keep on tryingSmile, what's the use of crying.You'll find that life is still worthwhile-If you just smile.

At this point, I'm not so certain I can do that, even though I've always adored that song. Hearing Jeff Lynne singing it hit me threefold because he's the one giving the advice this time.

There's only been one other instance where Jeff Lynne made me cry, it was was own fool doing. I never understood how people could get so overwhelmed by meeting one of their heroes, or being in close approximation to one of their idols but, the night I attended VH-1 Storytellers, I was one of those Elvis Girls. I was a Beatles Girl. I didn't get to meet Jeff, but I heard him play live and that was more than I ever dreamed I'd ever do, especially in such in intimate venue.

I guess what I'm trying to say here is that I wish I were still that starstruck dreamer that awoke upon hearing 'I'm Alive' in 1990. But there's also a part of me that would be beyond destroyed because I'd have no one to share the wonderment with. I don't know Jeff Lynne personally like, like I do Barry. I'm actually not very fond of ELO fans; hey can be vindictive. I guess I can too, just by saying that. All in all, I get along with Shriekback fans and relate to them much more easily than I do ELO fan.

I'm rattling again.

I just wish I could recapture that voice of innocence and see some sort of light at the end of this tunnel without assuming it's the Train From Hell.

Twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, I lived with Aunt Tudi. She was a victim of abuse by authority, society, gender, religion ~ what have you, she was a victim. She she learned more about my Pagan exploration, she latched on it it like a piranha. She adored the idea of a matristic society. She longed for it. And that longing stirred within her a dinstinct revilement of the Patriarchy in which we now live. She got so extreme by it all, even I grew weary of her railing against what she referred to as the rich white man.

When she died, people came out of the woodwork, proclaiming Aunt Tudi's deep concern for my slipping into the treacherous grips of Satan. I knew they were lying. If anything, I often defended their right to believe as they wished, because belief can be a powerful and comforting thing. Why burst a bubble when you may need it the most? But that was exactly what these people, whom I had defended were doing to me, using Aunt Tudi's death to convert me to their way of thinking. Do you know what it did? It made me question what little faith I did have in whatever faith I had chosen. I feel like a lifeboat lost at sea, like that old black & white nail-biter that make you wondering whe was gonna get distilled and eaten for the day.

They're lying to me. I know that they're lying to me. I knew Aunt Tudi all too well. They're usuing her death to supposedly save my soul. If selling out the one person I love on this Earth other than than my mama, my soul does not deserve to be saved. I deserve whatever hell is waiting for me. If hell exists, if I took the route these "do-gooders" want me to take, I deserve it and a thousand times more.

I've never had much like for my fellow human. For years, I've hoped the Earth will be saved from the virus that we are. One an even more personal level, I can honestly say I hate my species. And I'm not excluding myself from all this. We're deceptive, opportunistic, and harmful to ourselves and our fellow Earthlings. Jesus Christ taught to turn the other cheek. The man must have been made of nothing but billions of Pink Floydian 'The Wall' cheeks, 'cos he'd have to be turning them forever. I want the Jesus that kicks the money-changers' arses. I want Boadiccea. I want Cailleach. I want NEMESIS.

Every time I've ever forgiven, I've been hurt just that much more. I don't care about forgiveness anymore. I care about getting through until the end of the Mayan Calendar with the hope that that the hype is right and the Earth is left to a much better species than we shall ever hope to be.

I don't know if all this is gonna end up getting me committed. Surely, I'm not the only one who feels betrayed by everyone and everything in my life. I lost my best friend last year and now everyeone is telling me to get over it. I live in a house I hate in a state I completely despise, with an aversion to crying, yet finding myself doing so in public. I want to abandon everything and just hit the road to nowhere.

I joke around alot about about the Alpaca Lips, and I have a lot of people laughing along with me.

But it's all a lie. I do hope for the end of the world. I don't see where I have contributed much of anything to this planet, and I see around me people taking from the Earth but never giving back. I don't see how we, as a race, have done any good whatsoever. People will object to my philosophy and argue that I wanted the endtime, but I'm afraid to die, and part of me hopes I'm one of the survivors. That's not true. I'll be at the front of the line if it helps some species gets to ascend and maybe do much better than the human race. We have been a failed experiment created by some sort of scientist who is embarrassed by his creation gone horribly wrong. It's time to dump the petrie dose and start again.

People say I am morbid and have a death complex. Maybe I do. But I see more harm and more what people would call sin every day, and it never gets better. When my fellow humans rally to save the Earth, they are lying, even though they don't know. The Earth will continue. When they jump and holler about keeping the Earth pristine and unharmed, they are screaming to keep the capable of lf hosting the human parasite. Like I said, the Earth will continue. She'll just shake off the offending creatures that are making her itch, and move along much healthier than before. So the hippies screaming against the conservatives aren't doing any good, nor are the conservatives doing much to harm our planet. She's not our planet. Nothing belongs to us except the mess we have made for ourselves.

So yeah, I hope 12-21 brings a calamity. My own sorrow and guilt will be wiped away right along side the people who suffer the same, yet not realise it. We're a virus, contributing to the Earth our sorrows in the form of destruction. We need to be wiped by the Terrifying Sqeegee of God, and sooner, the better.

I had intentionally avoided iTunes for the past few days and, as a result, I have not written in the past few days. So, I opened iTunes this evening. And I'm right back to the Terrible Three. Suddenly, Flint is very real to me again. It should be Cadmus but noooo... Flint has somehow been woven into the mix, irreversibly I am afraid. So what do I do? It's either keep iTunes open and let the songs run their course until I'm bleeding out my eyes so I can write, or keep iTunes closed and let the block take hold of me.

What sorcery is this, anyway?

I want to write, but this is just too much. The anchor for someone I have actively lusted over for over six months now should not be so deeply connected to the anchor for my Demon Child. Not via three little songs. Okay, three BIG songs.

Now I won't be able to listen to these songs without thinking about Flint. And I won't be able to write Flint who should already be dead without thinking about these songs.

And that's what I don't understand. One of these songs is like Ultimate Swag times Infinity, and Flint is like the Anti-Swag. He's about as unswaggy (that's not even a word) as a person can be. You can't swag in shoes three sizes too big. You can't swag dressed in Vagabond Chic. You shouldn't be able to swag when you should already be fucking dead!

These songs are inherently Cadmusian, particularly the Ultimate Swag tune. Why can't I ever intentionally link songs up with the proper character? It's like one of the prettiest, one of the gentlest songs I've ever heard, "Clubbed to Death," turned out to be Cadmus' theme song. How did that even happen? And, even though Flint's connectedness to the world is "Viva La Vida" by Coldplay, he's also latched onto these three songs. I can't wrap my mind around it, nor can I dislodge the connection from my brain. And what's so pathetic is, I've already figured out a way to keep the wee bastard alive yet again, so I'll have to be careful what I listen to until I'm able to kill the fucker off.

Dammit, dammit all to hell!

Nothing ever comes easy for me, at least not in the character department.

That said, since I would have permanently lost 'The Waltham Phantom' if I had not committed it to the Cliffs, I'm going to put the rudimentary beginning of 'Feeding the Tree' here.

Oh, one more thing...when the hell did Cadmus start calling another person "love?" Pet, yes, but "love?" I'm so bumfuzzled right now, I don't even know what to say.

Apparently, Andy Partridge offended some people online with some, what some considered to be, anti-Semitic jokes. First of all, let me get this out of the way; I am Jewish by birth and heritage. I was raised both with some Jewish and Christian traditions. As I aged, I became closer to the Jewish world-view, since one of Judaism's saying is (and I paraphrase): there are many roads that lead to the same mountain. I felt like I could follow my own light, but still keep my heritage alive. Starhawk, who was incredibly influential in my Pagan life, also identified as a Jewish Pagan.

That being said, Andy Partridge tweeted some Beatles jokes that used Jew-related names. He and three of his Jewish friends came up with them. People got offended.

Now, I'm not one to adhere to or support politically-correct language. It all seems like a load of Doublespeak to me. I don't think Andy meant any harm in what he was typing; rather, it seems more ignorance of American language taboos than anything remotely anti-Semitic. But some people have had their hero-bubble burst.

Andy Partridge is indeed a hero of mine, but (and I'm sure you know what name I'm about to type) Barry Andrews far outshines Partridge's light despite my being acquainted with XTC a good two years before I twigged on to Shriekback. It was heartening to experience getting to talk to (and/or meet) your hero without any sort of bubble being burst. The only bubble that burst with me is B didn't attempt to cut my throat. Otherwise, I have been surprisingly impressed by and justified in Barry's words and actions. It's been seven years since I met him, and I am still just as enamoured of his music and conceptions than I was in 1990. My story is far from what really happens 90% (or more) of the time when fans interact with their long-time heroes. I've been really lucky in that respect.

Now, here, people would probably expect me to say that hero-interaction can ruin you on your heroes. I have found that incorrect so far. Just because someone posts something online doesn't mean they are aware of language constrictions in a totally different country. You have to allow for such things, especially since America is not, despte to modern conception, the center of the universe. You shouldn't have hero-related PTSD just because your hero said something that may be politically incorrect in your country. Allow for some wiggle room here, people!

I don't hold a grudge against Andy Partridge for not knowing about certain verboten words in the US. He is quintessentially English in a small English town with primarily English references. He hasn't toured or come to America in about twenty years, to my knowledge. Such a life like that is bound to be insular at best. Cut the man some slack.

Andy Partridge is a hero of mine regardless of any comments he made. I do not hold such things against a person. Only when they repeatedly show that they are prejudiced against someone do I begin to question their veracity and innocence. Andy Partridge does not fall into that category. Grow some balls, adopt some bullshit filters, and live to see your hero another day.

I am being held hostage. By my own dedication and desire, I am being held hostage. It's like I am trapped in some hellish loop caused by the Law of Attraction. Instead of like attracting like and the subjects moving on, the Law has become a tennis match, like attracting like attracting like attracting like, the volley seemingly neverending and never changing. I don't think I want this anymore. I am tired, wounded, and disappointed.

I want out of this, but I don't know how to make it happen. I'm locked into an exchange, for it has existed so long, it's too powerful to overcome.

I am 100% sympathetic with members of the GLBT being bullied, but I take issue with the inclination of the public acting like they are the only ones who are or have ever been bullied. Here is a most-decidedly incomplete list of people who have been or are bullied:

"fat" kids (I know this firsthand and in SPADES)

small kids

poor kids

shy kids

the sports-challenged

kids who have developed faster than others (this more-often applies to girls whose breasts are very developed)

kids who aren't as "smart" as their contemporaries

"geeks," "nerds," and other kids who are "smarter" than their contemporaries

non-xtians

I implore the media to give these kids equal time to the gay kids who are mercilessly bullied by those who feel they are entitled to do so. If you don't, there is an absolute certainty that another Columbine will happen in the future, when kids bullied beyond their capacity to deal decide to turn the gun on those other than themselves.

It seems that the more depressed I get in real life, the more manic I become online to try to counteract it all. The past couple of days have been pretty bad, with missing Aunt Tudi terribly, reliving all my regrets about her, and being completely alone here in the house, in utter silence. I have been so lonely, and so lost.

Then, every time I'd feel the tears welling up, I'd throw myself into cyberspace and write anything, everything, even if it didn't need writing. And I'd seek out pictures and post them constantly on Facebook. And I would obsess over everything.

I see myself being pulled to those things and people that have comforted me in the past, when no one and nothing else could. And my focus would be diamond-sharp. It's been scary of late, but these are the only things I can think about. I grasp desperately for these sources of solace, and I find myself trying to take everyone along with me, despite their probably being sick of me and my insanity.

And then there's Cadmus. My one great tormentor, my demon child, has suddenly become a safe and familiar haven. This entity that's filled with rage and hatred, so capable of unspeakable cruelty, always eager to take the road that will bring him closer to the dark matter of the spirit...I am running to him for some sort of sanctity and reason in my life.

What does that even mean?

All I know, is that I'm woeful, my sleep patterns (as if I had any) are flipped inside out, and I'm...well, I'm serenading monsters, quietly seething. I don't want to cry anymore. I want to laugh in the face of all of it, and come out the other end as unscathed as I can be. I'm tired of grieving and regretting. If I don't stop it, I may just succumb to the void that is my mind-child. Only the Mighties know what I'd be capable of then, what lengths I would go to, to achieve some sort of peace in my world.

I know it's wrong, but I can't help it. I occasionally check up on someone who hurt me very badly a few years ago and, each time I check on them, they have fallen from grace even more. They once thought they were so mighty and could treat anyone and everyone like dirt simply because of their perceived position.

But the mighty fall.

And to see how this person, who once had hundreds more followers than they followed on Twitter, now has fewer followers than they follow...well, it heartens me deep within the darkest, Sithliest inner core. They claim to have "culled" their Twitter, but they are known to put any sort of positive spin on anything that doesn't put them in a kindly light.

They deceived one of their closest friends for the pursuit of money. They betrayed people who's only goal was to help, because they felt threatened. They assumed they were more important than they actually turned out to be. They used people up and tossed them to one side when it served their own nefarious purposes. They lied, cheated, all but stole, and acted thoroughly inappropriate around people who had once trusted them.

Yeah, this person is continuing to harvest the poison crops sown by their seeds of ugliness. This person is still getting exactly what they deserve.

And I can't do anything but watch the train wreck and try not to smile. I am a vengeful and spiteful person when it comes the well-being of people I care about. I am equally as vicious when it comes to my being treated like shit when I have freely given of myself and whatever meagre talents I may bring to the table.

Do not take advantage of me or mine, then treat us all like we're your vassals or possessions. If you do, and then you find yourself alone, banished and disgraced, it is nothing more than you deserve. And don't think, don't ever think I don't check in just to see how far down the pit you've fallen lately. I still take an interest in you because I want to know how miserable your life is now. I got to know you pretty well in the year we worked "together." My bullshitometer can measure exactly how crap your life is by what you're writing.

Just like your culling of your Twitter herds. You're still referring to people as though they were cattle present only to benefit your well-being. Personally, I think (and you know I'm right here) that you are the one who has been culled, by more people than you would ever care to admit, even to yourself. Because, of all the things that you are, you are, first and foremost arrogant and delusional.

And you had the audacity to question my sanity and persuade others to do the same. You're crazy if you think anyone is fooled by your lies anymore. Maybe the 40 or so followers you haven't culled, but something tells me that even they hold you in suspect. And the rest of us have moved on without you. Hell, I wouldn't even be writing this if I didn't have an overzealous sense of vengeance.

But that's my cross to bear, my fatal flaw. I admit I have flaws. And that's the difference between you and me. You will eventually end up completely alone in your little flawless world, while the rest of us continue on being imperfect and unworthy of your high-handed friendship. I guess we'll just have to get along without your bright beacon of superiority.

By the same token, you'll just have to get along without any of us...for as long as you live, hopefully.

I'm no fan of Barbie. Never have been. In fact, I would put my cousin's Barbies through my own version of the Auto da Fe. And that's never a good thing. But that was my idea of playing with dolls as a kid, so there you go.

As I got older and started really taking notice of Barbie, I found myself appalled at her buxom blonde persona, replete with dinky waist and feet suited only for high heels or Chinese binding.

Now Barbie has a "new friend." BALD BARBIE! She's just as wee-waisted, and probably still has godawful human hooves, but she's bald this time, in honour of all the little cancer babies out there.

And that just sets me into a whole other orbit of fury. It is just assumed by popular culture that you pretty much have to be dying if you're bald. Excuse me? Wait, what?! Just because you're bald doesn't mean you're going through some sort of chemo regimen. Just because you're bald doesn't mean you have to be pitied by the toy industry, or honoured by them, or what-the-hell-ever.

When they start calling Barbie Anorexia Barbie, then they might have leave to make a doll representing terminally ill bald people. In the meantime, stop harshing on people with no hair or people with a waistline that might be a bit more than negative 30...or people with fucking feet.

I've come to grips with the fact that I just will never learn to keep my piehole shut. I may have just compromised one of the few bastions of public interaction without worrying about being seen. If I keep up, at this rate, I'll have to go be a hermit in a cave, never to be heard from online again. And, even though that might thrill whole populations of cyber individuals, it would be a sad thing for me, especially now that my primary interaction with people is here on The Intarwebz. The local yokels have never and will never do it for me. It's either the world wide web or a vast cave fraught with all manner of speleothums (speleotha? that sounds more correct to my Roman senses, but whatever) as my only company. Who knows? I may even get to grow a beard that will weave this mouth of mine shut for good.

Does it ever bother or scare you that U2 could destroy all your favourite so-called musicians with a single note from any song in their body of work?

Case in point: during the age (or a little after the beginning) of the Techno-Rave, U2 became their *own* Techno-Rave, just because they could. That's what real musicianship is about, being able to stretch your bound...aries, define and redefine yourself and the music around you, exploring the far reaches of creativity.

This is why U2 still exists. This is why Depeche Mode and Duran Duran still exist. This is why Annie fucking Lennox got to sing a song for The Lord of the Rings instead of any auto-tuned fleabag shitkicker with a -9 dress size. This is why Jeff Lynne is being plagued by thousands to give them some new music whilst Justin Bieber is begged by thousands to just...stop it. This is why Paul McCartney and Elton John are KNIGHTS. This is why Shriekback and XTC have cult followings that actually border on being CULTS.

I'm a little tiddly bit stir crazy. My scheduled "release date" is Sunday, 4 March. They say I'm doing well with the physical therapy, but my only problem is I'm not straightening my leg to the desired point, which is 2. The closest I've gotten is 3. All the therapists with whom I've worked say that the reason for this is the swelling in my knee. So, instead of keeping it as straight as possible in the bed last night, I kept the whole leg elevated and iced all night. The swelling had gone down just a tad by this morning. I decided to keep the leg elevated and iced until they come to take me to the Inquisition Dungeon for rehab. Hopefully, I'll reach the desired goal and cement the physician's decision to let me leave on Sunday.

When I leave here, I'm going to Uncle Michael's and Janice's for at least a week. Janice has prepared the extra bedroom for me and has planned a nice meal revolving around potatoes for when I come home. As soon as I feel confident enough to walk down to the house, I'm going to visit the beasties and get them used to the idea that I'm back. I think easing them back into the idea that I'm home will prevent them from acting like idiots (Toby) and trying to climb my frame (Toby), potentially hurting my incision area.

For now, here I sit with my new roommate of three days, who talks constantly if not to me, to someone on the phone or to her bevy of visitors. And she keeps her TV loud enough to drown my TV out. And she's racist...and probably sexist and religiously judgemental. Y'know...a Repugnican. Honestly, that's the only problem I've had other than the pain. It takes an act of god for any medicine to work for me, not just pain medicine, and they've had me on the lowest dose possible for pain. Needless to say, it has had less than stellar effect on my pain issues. I'm hoping they send me home with something a tad stronger than what I'm getting here; otherwise, I am essentially fucked and will be calling the doc incessantly until I get some results 'cos, right now, it sucks like a Dyson.

That's some serious suckage.

Today, I think I'm going to keep my headphones on as much as possible and just listen to music all day long. There's really nothing of interest on the telly, especially since there are no movie channels available on the Spartanburg Regional satellite. I may even try to work on The Harming Tree some. My block is still very much present, but at least I'm able to write a little at times. A little is better than nothing.

I have been a loyal blogger here for just a few months short of a decade. Rarely have I ever had an issue with your service, and it's always been a temporary one when I did have an issue; however, I have a big issue now. A serious one.

SPAM

I'm constantly being spammed here on the Cliffs of Insanity. It's been going on for some time now, but I figured you'd reign in the offenders and protect your core base from such offence. But it has only gotten worse. And it's really starting to piss me off. Having to delete spam off my journal entries, particularly the ones about the passing of Aunt Tudi, is getting to be more than just an inconvenience; it is becoming an issue serious enough to make me consider moving the entire Cliffs to a new blogging service.

There's a lot of debate over the latest viral video, this one of a father (Tommy Jordan) putting eight bullets in his daughter's laptop to teach her a lesson about respect and appreciation.

There is a small group of people, many parents themselves no less, who object to his methods. One woman even said "I do see the frustration parents feel, but the applause of other parents saying, 'Yay,' comes from their unwillingness to jump in and be parents in the platform that their kids are playing in."

Wait, excuse me?

I'm not a parent (thank the MIGHTIES), but I take issue with thinking like this. First of all, why should the parent have to contend with their child on that child's platform? They are the parent and should therefore dictate what platform upon which the two interact. This is one of the many things wrong with modern parenting, at least in America.

Secondly, why shouldn't parents cheer Mr. Jordan on? He's finally taking back the authority too many parents today have willingly relinquished to their children. For too long the children have been in charge, and look at the results of such a dreadful arrangement. What, one or two generations completely out of control? Tons think their profession is playing video games or shopping. Their sense of entitlement is nauseating because their demands for instant gratification have been met with acquiescence by the parents on every single level.

The only issue I take with Tommy Jordan is that he had to let things get this far before taking drastic measures, which probably means he learned that there was a such a word as "no," and he could actually use it when dealing with his daughter, a bit on the late side.

And awwww, poor little Heather was publicly embarrassed? Maybe she should have thought twice before bitching publicly about her parents. If you take something to a public forum, be prepared to accept responsibility for your actions on that same forum. And those who argue that the girl was just a child, and therefore incapable of understanding the ramifications of her behaviour, are a major part of the problem. Children should learn early on that their actions bear consequences. Maybe there wouldn't be so much bullying if kids were taught this invaluable lesson. The Threefold Law does not just apply to adults.

Take responsibilty. And, if you don't, be prepared to learn hard lessons.

And all you willy nilly parents out there who think that this act of tough love was too tough; taking away a parent's rights to properly discipline their children will lead to lessons like the one Tommy Jordan had to teach his daughter Heather. If you take your kids in reign early on, you want have to drag out the big guns (pun intended) later in their lives. Stop being wimps and start being fucking parents.

And stop condemning Tommy Jordan for having the balls to what you're too afraid to do yourself.

Super-charged Chai tea and insomnia do not fond bedfellows make. Why do I do this to myself? I'm on the verge of actually writing more original material, particularly for the new short story collection, but I keep getting caught up in weirdness that I don't need nor do I want.

Then I find I'm running into the arms of Darth Maul for solace, just like I did thirteen years ago. After all this time, I can't believe I'm thinking on writing another Maulfic. I won't do it, of course. The Massassi Sapphire was the end for me, and it always will be. I need to redirect this kinetic brain energy back to where it belongs and bite the proverbial bullet.

So I juice up on a mega-caffeine, originally reserved for the mad days and nights of The Joker Blogs, and I wait for the noodle to explode. I'm just afraid I'll still be awake three days from now and have the killer sitting on my shoulder, gnawing at the thoughts I can't put down to paper, and drinking my sanity like it is a bowl of warm blood.

It does not help that I keep taking on side-projects...of my own making. It's an avoidance maneuver in plain sight. Avoiding the obvious by obvious association. That makes no bloody sense, but I don't care.

I'd say I needed a hobby, but taking on more would only make it worse, and I'd probably choose something monumentally unhealthy for myself.

It's a shame that people from my past affect how I find myself interacting with people in my present and will most likely influence my relationships with people in the future. Just today, I found myself hesitating on sharing a song, a single stupid song, with someone. Why? Because I shared hours of music with someone who shortly afterward took my good will and proclivity to trust people, and turned it all around on me, making me appear as though I were a terrible person. And, no matter what I did, the betrayal was so thorough, I only made things worse by trying to make things better.

What makes it even worse is that, because of this senseless act of spite, another person to whom I had done nothing but help, turned away from me as though all the effort I'd made was of no importance whatsoever. And, in the scheme of things, I don't guess it really was. But that puts into question anything I do for another. Why should I even bother, really?

The universe is a big place and the things I have done are really just tiny things comparably. That said, I may help another if I'm asked, but my days of volunteering because I believe in anything have been over for a good two years now. If this had been the first time I'd been tossed to the wayside because of he-said/she-said situations after I gave my best simply because I thought it was the right thing, I may still be willing to be a fool again someday.

But, given that I just had a lovely interlude of seething over a situation beyond my control, after months of not thinking about it, I seriously doubt I'll ever be that foolish again...even when it involves something as inconsequential as sharing a tiny file.

During my time on Earth, visiting various locales and encountering different people and cultures, I have found a strange connection between mainstream religions, ignorance, and an obsession with sports. The more entrenched in mainstream religion (like fundamentalism) an area is, the less that area focuses on real education and the more the people glorify sports (like local football in South Carolina). I've seen this connection time and time again, but the reason for it eludes me. I've yet to hear the lost Sermon on the Mount where Jesus gives Friday night's high school football scores with a fervour like he was channeling dear ole dad himself.

If there's one thing on this planet I hate (more than Right Wing Idiot xtians with no tolerance for anything but their own colour/creed/caste/what-have-you), it's transferring my files from one computer to another. I'm in the process of doing that right now and I'm up to around file #2000 of just under 55,000 files. :| This is going to take forever. I just know it. At least I can do other things while this is going on, and this is going to be going on for a while, looks like. This way, though, everything that's on Aunt Tudi's computer can be wiped clean and it'll be ready for her usage from almost the moment she gets it back from the Geek Squad.

I could have done this day before yesterday when I got the computer back the first time, but honestly, I was lazy and just put it off. Now, it's a must-do situation, as I need my Word documents and I need my iTunes files desperately. Not that I'm a writing or music junkie or anything... oh no, not me. I just hate waiting and having to deal with busy crap that could be spent doing other stuff...like blinking my freaking eyes. I know that sounds like the height of laziness, but I'll be the first to admit that I lean on the lazy side more often than not. So shoot me. Honestly, I'd rather be shot than have to wait for these damnable files to transfer!

Very cool = Shriekback's 'Life in the Loading Bay' Thespian Assortment came in the mail today. It doesn't have the CD in it, but it does have the bonus CD-R with plenty of groovy tunes on it to keep me busy with interest until the LitLB CD arrives.

Really horrible = I found this on Barry's public page on Facebook just before I had to go run some errands. "Kinky is when you use a feather. Perverted is when you keep making Tracy Evans think of Barry Andrews in a state of undress."

First off, no force of god nor nature could make me do that, but he doesn't know that. He may assume the worst if he sees this and it could ruin a friendship, or at least seriously compromise it. I'm still waiting on the person who posted it to delete it, so it'll hopefully disappear from his page. If she won't, I don't know what I'll do. I guess, I'll just point him to the post and tell him that I'm mildly miffed about the whole thing.

Oh, and really, really horrible = fucking AUTO-TUNE on a mix of a Shriekback song. Granted, it's one of Carl's songs (if it were one of Barry's, I'd have to hunt the auto-tune inventor down and slaughter him/her/it), but any Shriek song with that fucking scourge is unacceptable. Leave the auto-tune for the talentless fucks who don't write their own music and/or can't sing their own songs. Don't force feed it to professional musicians and poets who know what the fuck they're doing.

FFFFfffff!!! >:|

**EDIT** Oooookay, crisis averted. But I'm deeply pissed with Facebook for being fucking tackheads about privacy issues. I figured she had no idea he'd be able to see that. GAAAAAAAHHHHHD. And I'm still wholly irked at the whole auto-tune debacle.

And that's the Fundies have zero, and I do mean ZERO, sense of humour. They all need to get their collective sticks from out of their collective arses because our very existence is proof that the creator has one hell of a sense of humour. How else can we explain our fucked up existence? Get over yourselves, Fundamentalists, or do us all a favour and commit mass suicide so we can laugh at your silly waste of space and get on with our own silly waste of space without having to put up with your utter lack of sanity, self-deprecation, or real belief in god. For the love of Bob...

I sent Barry Andrews a package on 4 April. It contained a Very Important Gift for him, something that would hopefully connect him to some happy memories, and would most likely replace a thing he has long not had in his possession.

He has yet to receive the package.

It usually takes about two weeks for any Priority packages to reach the UK from America. I sent this package Priority and insured. I had a tracking number. So I checked the package online and received the following message regarding my tracking number: There is no record of this item. X_X

I can go into the Post Office and bitch about their losing my package, and I can rail against them and demand my money back, but it won't do any good. I know how this goes. All they will do is tell me "Sorry, there's nothing to be done. You pays your fees and takes your chances when you ship internationally." I've heard this before.

The good news is that I kept back one of the duplicate items, having a feeling that I should. Now, I can send this to him. I'm going to consider alternative shipping methods like Fed Ex. It'll be spendy, but this is something I've been wanting to do for a long time. So...screw you, USPS! This is a perfect example of why people are leaving your facilities in droves, because you suck like a Dyson vacuum cleaner. If I have my way, I will never darken your useless doors again.

It falls on a Sunday and there's debate in this area as when "trick-or-treat" should be held since Hallowe'en is "the devil's day." Excuse me, if you think it's the devil's day, don't participate at all. If you come knocking on my door on a Saturday because you don't believe in celebrating the modern interpretation of Hallowe'en, your brats will go off empty handed because I'm not handing anything out until HALLOWE'EN. Take your hypocritical arse to someone more sympathetic to your belief conflict because I'm not the person for you. You'll be knocking on the door not only of a real Witch, but a seriously pissed-off Witch who doesn't like kids. The only reason we have candy to hand out is Aunt Tudi insists on it. Personally, I'd rather hork a loogie in their bags and tell them to take a flying leap. This is probably why Aunt Tudi is so loved and I'm so...well, whatever.

Come Sunday to get your cheap-ass candy and not a bloody day sooner. Got it? Good.

My vow is to never volunteer my services to anyone ever again. They'll have to ask me and, even then, I'll have to think about it. I've been hurt too much by people who should have been nicer to me than believe the nasty rumours. Yes, I'm dwelling on negative matters today. I don't feel the best in the world and I'm fretting over things that could have gone so much better. It proves that only the good die young and the decent are done dirty. I just wish I could get over it. But when you give your all to something about which you feel passionate, when that thing disintegrates before your very eyes without any way of turning it around, the pain kind of sticks with you like a cold morning dew after being out all night.

From now on, though, if I have something to offer someone who needs help, I'm not jumping in feet first. No. If I'm needed, they can approach me. If I'm not needed enough to be approached, then I was never needed to begin with and I'm off the hook.

Beagles are notorious for becoming laboratory animals. I don't know if it's because of their capacity to learn quickly or their good nature ~ perhaps a combination of both ~ but I just could bear the thoughts of the puppy going to the shelter only to be picked up by a local lab to have experiments done on him. It's an abomination. Animal experiments in general are horrid to say the least but, to choose one of the sweetest natured dogs to shave and put on electrodes, leave suspended and offer up various horrible experiences is beyond my capacity for rational thought. I'd be in trouble if a herd of beagles needing homes came to my door. There's no way I could take care of them, but I'd die trying.

I was bullied for being the fat kid. I didn't have a name among the classes, the great throng of youth into which I was thrust at the age of 5. I was "fattiie" or "fatso" or "that fat kid." I was watched like a hawk at lunch and derided with every bite I took. By the time I reached junior high, I stopped eating lunch. I'd save my money for music, which worked out pretty well.

I watched others get bullied, but was too cowed myself to come to anyone's defense. I hated the people who bullied us square pegs. I had fantasies of their demise at my hands.

That being said, I can understand it when a kid takes a weapon to school, or when some "tragedy" like Columbine happens. The people targeted there were the cheerleaders, football players, so-called Christians, and the rich kids. These are the kids who usually bully, feeling entitled to do anything they please to anyone they please because they are the poster children of the best in society. For the most part, these kids behave in a manner that deserves capital punishment.

That may be extreme, but coming from someone who fantasized about killing my tormentors, it's often the final solution.

So there's more than one reason to stop the bullying. The suicide of these kids who aren't strong enough to deal with the perpetual onslaught and the murder of the mediocre elite by those kids who have enough and decide that payback is going to be a bitch that fateful day.

And to all those out there who were bullied along with me, who suffered in silence and bent your head down when someone else was catching it instead of you, know that you are loved by me. I feel a kinship with you and you will always be my brothers and sisters, no matter what.

Aunt Tudi has been put on a nebulizer. She had me stick around to learn how to use the thing so I could help her later on. I also became her emergency contact. When the lady found out my name, she said I sounded like a country music singer. Someone kill me now.

Aunt Tudi and I were out of pretty much everything, so we went to Wally World to pick up some bits and bobs. Whilst there, I spotted this young teen girl with a tee shirt that said "Only Vampires can love you forever." Of course, I thought that was the bees knees. I don't know if it's from Twilight and I don't care; it's still the bees knees.

During one of our many stops so Aunt Tudi could regroup, I spied these things. This is what Americans are shoving in their faces these days. No wonder people are getting diabetes and dropping like flies. This is just death on a stick, I swear to the Mighties.

We're home after being gone for over three hours. Aunt Tudi had physical therapy, which we went to before going to Wally World. I remember when we could go all day and keep on going when we got home, but age and illness combined with the godawful heat have turned us both into limp rags. If I thought I could sleep, I'd go to bed right now. It's cooler in the bedroom. Instead, I'll just stay in the living room and grouse until bedtime.